


More Than Meets The Eye

by FayJay



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them Kinkmeme, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: Written for the following Kinkmeme prompt:GrindelGraves, unaware the thing would be stolen so quickly, decided that inside the suitcase was an excellent place to stash the comatose RealGraves. Newt discovers this when he's already sailing out of NY harbour. Percival is pretty freaked out and unsure if the kind, unassuming magizoologist promising that he's safe and no one is going to harm him is a trick or a genuine saviour. He's getting to the point where he thinks it's the latter, if only because Newt seems unaware that his animals are all giving him the universal "i'm watching you" act when Newt's not looking. The animals, after all, can recognise the look and smell of the man who hurt their human, but not that the one who did the hurting was an imposter. They aren't outright attacking though, since many of them also were scared and confused and attacked when their human first found them.





	

He isn’t absent-minded, no matter what Theseus says. His mind is very much present, thank you; it’s just that he’s not always focussing on the things that the people around him think are important.

(The truth, which he’s never voiced to anyone, is that the Sorting Hat had been torn between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Newt is his own kind of brilliant, and the canny old hat had recognised this at once; granted this brilliance had never really translated itself into his school reports, which regularly read “could do better” or “not living up to his full potential”, but that’s because Newt was never able to work up very much interest in the academic study of Charms or History of Magic or Transfiguration – not when there was a whole forest full of fascinating creatures right there on his doorstep, waiting to be explored in secret late at night. And although he might have learned all manner of fascinating things about centaurs and redcaps and will’o the wisps on those moonlit expeditions, his habit of falling asleep over his cauldron wasn’t designed to impress his teachers with his intellectual prowess. 

So – he was *almost* a Ravenclaw – but the hat had seen to the heart of him with its strange, leathery insight, and it had known that however erratically brilliant the freckled little ginger scrap of Scamanderdom might be, he was fiercely, passionately compassionate to the core. So: “Hufflepuff!” had croaked the hat, and Newt had pulled it off his head and tottered uncertainly over to a table full of students who would none of them ever quite understand Theseus Scamander’s little brother. In a House distinguished by its strong bonds of friendship and loyalty, Newt Scamander had stood out like an orphaned wyvern in a skitter of puffskeins: private, shy and socially awkward. He needed jokes explaining and had a habit of talking to one’s shoulder; his fellow Hufflepuffs might not have stooped to bullying, but they never grew to like him.)

He isn’t really absent-minded. But there are plenty of things to concentrate one’s mind on during the voyage across the Atlantic, between caring for his creatures and editing his manuscript, and so it takes longer than it should do for him to realise that the teacup that he’s been using for the past few days, with its delicate willow pattern, is one that he’s never seen before in his life. 

Newt sets the cup gingerly down on its saucer and sits back, peering at it. Pickett, who has graduated from blowing tiny raspberries to treating Newt to frosty, dignified silence (but who has, nevertheless, flatly refused to leave Newt’s person since the escape from the speakeasy) makes a nervous little trill as he peeps around the edge of Newt’s collar. Newt lifts a hand and strokes him automatically, feeling the nervous tremble give way to the subtly different vibration of a bowtruckle purr.

“Where did you come from, hey?”

It’s a china teacup, not a weapon of magical destruction – but Newt reminds himself uneasily that Grindlewald had been here, running his stolen fingertips over Newt’s belongings and scouring the menagerie for possible weapons. Perhaps Newt should have been a little more conscientious about looking for traps: in truth it hadn’t really occurred to him to worry, once he’d established that all his creatures were accounted for and unharmed. 

He’s realising now that this could have been a potentially fatal oversight, but for the life of him he can’t think of any threat that a teacup could be said to pose. 

(Leta would have a list of a dozen ways it could be dangerous, he knows; Leta would have noticed it straight away, and probably reduced it to powder at once, just to be on the safe side.)

The design isn’t actually willow pattern, he sees. It’s the same bold blue-on-white, and the artwork looks vaguely oriental if one isn’t paying attention – pointy pagodas and neat little hump-backed bridges in the background – but instead of two fleeing lovers turning into birds, the artist has painted an incongruous Medieval European knight in armour in the foreground, clutching some kind of elaborate oversized wine glass. Newt cocks his head. The little knight is, for reasons Newt cannot begin to fathom, standing in the middle of what looks like a cemetery. This being wizarding artwork, he is also looking right back at Newt and waving. He looks rather cross, and Newt is abruptly conscious that he has drunk dozens of cups of tea over the past few days; he imagines his mouth descending, vast and terrible, towards the little knight and has to stop himself from apologising to the painting.

“…no, I really don’t recall buying you, or borrowing you,” he says, after a long, puzzled pause. Several months ago Pickett had co-opted his remaining unshattered teacup, with its pattern of badgers and snakes; he hasn’t left Newt’s person since they started the voyage, but Newt has been mentally categorising his badger teacup as a bowtruckle bath ever since finding the little fellow steeping himself in warm water one morning. He had been in the habit of playing catch-as-catch-can, washing out old potion jars or folding a banana leaf into a temporary origami cup with a swish of his wand whenever he felt the need for a reviving cuppa, but over the past few days he has been using this neat little china teacup without ever pausing to wonder where it came from. 

…A swish of his wand.

Transfiguration had never been Newt’s strongest suit at school, but his chosen line of work requires a fair bit of improvisation, and he had ample opportunity to improve on his lacklustre OWL grades through practical fieldwork during the war…

Newt bites his lower lip, frowning at the little blue knight. 

“I’m going to feel very silly indeed when this doesn’t work,” he sighs, and casts the spell to undo a transfiguration. 

But it does work, and so instead he gets to feel very silly indeed when he promptly trips over his own feet recoiling from the sudden appearance of a dishevelled and tea-scented American auror on his work bench. 

Pickett makes a startled noise and curls back behind Newt’s collar as Percival Graves glares at them both, wild-eyed and rumpled as he scrambles down from the bench. He is barefoot, and his pyjamas are the exact same shade of blue as the little painted knight had been. His wandless fingers twitch into fists, and for a moment Newt thinks he’s about to be punched in the face. 

“You’re not – “ begins Newt, assembling his thoughts with bewildered haste. “That is – no, of course not. Obviously. Right. Goodness me.”

“Where is he?” says Percival Graves – the real Percival Graves, apparently, because of course Grindlewald must have been keeping the man alive in order to keep brewing up polyjuice potion. Silly. Should have thought of that – but Newt has rarely been very interested in humans, and Graves had been quite unpleasant. Except, of course, that that was Grindlewald, wasn’t it? Grindlewald all along, large as life and twice as terrible. 

“Where IS he?” Graves repeats, and Newt reacts automatically to the hoarse edge of repressed terror in the man’s voice and the promise of violence in his posture. This is familiar territory after all. 

“Gone,” he says, gentling his voice and shifting his stance to be as unthreatening as possible. He pockets his own wand and raises his empty hands, telegraphing harmlessness; he realises, with some surprise, that he is rather taller than Graves, and he slouches down a little in an attempt to underplay it. He forces himself to make fleeting eye contact, because among humans this means honesty, not challenge. “Imprisoned by your countrymen. You’re safe now.”

“You’re from Europe.” Newt blinks at the nonsequiteur for a moment, before realising that this might seem significant to a man recently imprisoned by the resolutely unAmerican Gellert Grindlewald. 

“Yes, well – yes, obviously. But I’m not on his side. I’m British. And – you know, not evil.” He gives a short laugh that quickly falters in the face of Graves’s suspicious scowl. “No, really – not at all evil, genocidal or fascistic. Quite harmless, I promise. And you’re perfectly safe here. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The look Graves gives him, taking in his uncombed hair, his ink-stained fingers and mismatched socks, is withering. “You’ve got THAT right,” says Graves, squaring his shoulders - but Newt knows an injured animal when he sees one. And besides, he’s used to receiving that kind of disparaging look from humans. Water off a selkie’s back. (He doesn’t really like metaphors – strange, slippery things designed to confuse rather than communicate - but he’s heard Theseus use that one often enough that it’s almost a charm in its own right. That is what sneers and slurs and insults are: water off a selkie’s back. They don’t matter. It’s doing that matters, not seeming.)

“Did he…” Newt asks, but his voice trails off and his wand hand clenches as muscle memory gifts him with the ghost of the Cruciatus Curse. He winces. “He hurt you,” he corrects himself, his voice uneven – because that was Grindlewald’s nature. “Obviously. Sorry. But – look, you’re safe now, and he’s the one in prison.” He darts a quick look at Graves’s eyes, then looks back at his shoulder. “I suppose you’ll want to know what’s been happening. Um.” He glances around at his work room and is struck by the belated realisation that it probably isn’t the most welcoming of places for an important foreign wizard, let alone one currently recovering from unspecified traumas. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, because that is what one says when bad things happen. And then he winces, and glances back up at the man’s face. Graves’s eyes have widened incredulously; he’s looking at Newt like Newt is some strange new species of animal. He knows that look. “No, sorry, of course not. Tactless. Sorry.” He grimaces. “I’m not very good with people. We’ve sort of met – or – well, I met the other you. The Grindlewald you. You condemned me to be executed, and then later tried to do it yourself. Himself. Not a very auspicious beginning to a friendship, but obviously that wasn’t really you, so….” 

He misses Jacob. It had been – restful, having a Muggle. Having a person who could be helpful, and who looked at Newt and saw somebody interesting and special, someone rather wonderful - rather than somebody strange and second-best, the way that Graves is doing right now. Not that one could keep a Muggle as part of the menagerie, of course – Muggles are people. But then, really, all his creatures are all people in a way…

“Newt Scamander,” he says, thrusting his hand forward a little desperately. “I said the part about not being very good with people already, didn’t I?”

Graves chokes out a huff of startled laughter. He still looks shocky and somewhat suspicious, but there are faint laugh lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, and his body language has softened. After a moment he accepts the handshake.

“Scamander,” Graves repeats, looking at him searchingly. “You’re not with Grindlewald,” he says, as if he’s only now deciding it. Newt nods fervently. “He’s really been caught?”

“He was being marched off by MACUSA last time I saw him,” says Newt, relieved that the conversation has carried him back into the safer territory of facts rather than feelings. “They seemed quite adamant that he was going to pay for his crimes. Impersonating an auror, and so forth. Trying to provoke war between wizards and muggles. No-majs. Using Unforgiveable Curses, turning people into crockery, that kind of thing.”

Graves lets out a shaky breath and rakes a hand through his hair. It’s rather longer than his counterpart’s was. Newt had, of course, only known the ersatz Graves very briefly, but he still finds it curious how like and not-like this man is. It must have been an excellent impersonation to have fooled all his colleagues, but still – this Graves lacks the edge of polished threat that Grindlewald exuded. He seems tired, and a little bit broken; Newt isn’t sure whether that is a result of his captivity or something innate. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?” he asks, because he cannot help being British, and he has long since learned that tea cures all social ills. This time Graves does laugh.

“Very sure,” he says. Newt reflects that this is probably just as well, because Pickett would almost certainly be cross about having his bath stolen back. “But if you have any Firewhiskey…?”

Ah, of course. Americans. “No, but – I think there’s still some Snapdragon Brandy? It’s medicinal, really, makes a good emetic for hobs and unseelie fay when mixed with ground asphodel and flobberworm slime, and it works as a decent surgical disinfectant in a pinch, but I suppose…?”

Graves is nodding, and so Newt reaches into the cupboard for the bottle. 

***

“…and THEN they realised that it wasn’t really me?” Newt has never excelled at identifying the nuances of human emotion in others, but he thinks it’s safe to say that the man is not happy. He looks like a garuda whose mating dance has been unambiguously rejected, all slumped shoulders and punctured pride. 

“Ah, well – no,” Newt says, fiddling with his cufflink. “Actually that’s when they turned their wands on you. Him. It all happened rather quickly.”

Graves shakes his head. “You’re telling me that MACUSA was just fine with me ordering Goldstein executed, and a foreign magizoologist along with her? No due process?” His voice cracks as Graves sloshes the last of the Snapdragon Brandy into his glass; Newt watches the swirls of pinks and violets and dark purples dance through the liquid like a rainbow of tiny, incongruously joyous obscuri.

“Yes,” he says, helpfully.

Graves takes another swallow of the brandy. “And nobody noticed that I – he – ‘I’ – was apparently GROOMING this poor repressed child like some kind of predator? And attempting to expose the wizarding world to the No-Majs, and cause mass panic and rioting and Merlin knows what else? Although frankly how he found the time to do that, with the amount of paperwork they want you to fill in these days, and in triplicate too – I mean, I’m normally at work from seven to seven Monday to Friday….but, seriously? Nobody noticed?”

“No,” agrees Newt, taking a cautious sip of brandy from his own small glass. It crackles on his tongue like angry sherbert in a burst of hot-sweet-sour: not bad, once you get used to it.

“It didn’t cross anyone’s mind as unlikely that I would have my friend’s little brother summarily executed?” When Newt’s confusion registers on his face, Graves gestures vaguely with the glass and adds: “Picquery’s well aware that I’ve known Theseus for years. Ask him about the conference in Prague, and that evening with the golems.” Newt is startled into making eye contact, and he finds that Graves’s mouth has quirked into a smile again. “You exceed expectations, incidentally, Mr Scamander.” 

There is a thoughtful silence, which Newt rather enjoys. Then Graves bursts out: “Merlin’s knobbly staff, though, Goldstein’s like a little terrier, isn’t she? Never gives up, that kid. Damn fine auror, just like her old man…what the hell was Picquery THINKING, demoting her?”

"Um...I believe I mentioned that she assaulted Mrs Barebone?"

"You said the crazy thaumophobic No-Maj was beating her kid," says Graves, shrugging. "Her kid who, it turns out, was a wizard all along. Goldstein's got good instincts – she was protecting a defenceless underaged wizard, and she obviously didn't use lethal force. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to do what's right."

Newt perks up. "Yes! Yes, exactly!" He darts a relieved glance at Graves's face. This is a much more sensible attitude than he had been expecting; of course he knows that the other man was Grindlewald all along, but it is still difficult, on a gut level, not to think of this as the man who condemned him to death.

"He should never have fallen through the cracks like that," Graves says, staring grimly into the distance. Newt follows his gaze uncertainly, but all he sees is his niffler scurrying along with a bright teaspoon clutched in its paws. 

"Yes, well - the case is rather old," he says, a touch defensively. He really must do something to discourage Herbert from escaping in search of shiny things; the trouble with these old travelling cases is that the lock charms do get glitchy after a while. 

"I've been saying for years that we need a more efficient way of identifying and bringing in the Sports," Graves continues.

Newt replays that sentence in his head several times, along with its predecessor, and concludes, irritably, that there may be figurative language at play.

"I don't understand," he says, the brandy blunting his tongue.

Graves glances back at him. "Wizards born to No-Majs. Too many of them never get identified. Fall into the wrong hands."

"Oh - muggleborn? Well - yes. Our Ministry has an automated system that reacts to unregistered fluctuations in atmospheric magic levels and alerts Hogwarts whenever a muggleborn witch or wizard starts to come into their powers - can't you...?"

Graves fixes him with a pointed look. "Mr Scamander, have you got any idea just how many No-Majs there are in North America? Or how large the territory is?"

"...lots? Big?"

"Lots," says Graves emphatically. "BIG." He sighs. "But still - there's got to be a way to do better."

"...it probably wouldn't have made a difference in this case," Newt says after a moment. "Not if she'd been filling his head with all this 'witches are evil' nonsense since he was little." He thinks back to Nour, small and terrible and terrified under the baking sun, surrounded by dead villagers, and feels a moment of absolute fury. He'd been too late to save her. Too late to save Credence.

But not too late to save Frank, he reminds himself. Frank, at least, is flying free once more.

"I don't understand people," he blurts out, thinking of Nour, of Frank, of Credence; thinking of the agony that tore through him as Graves - no, no, Grindlewald - had poured the full force of his fury into the Cruciatus curse. Too loud, his voice is too loud and the words are too glib - they don't carry the weight of his bafflement and pain in the face of human callousness, human cruelty. Words are another kind of magic, and one Newt has never really mastered. "I prefer creatures," he says, softly, and beneath the bright fold of his collar he feels Pickett snuggling up against him. "They're more - honest. You know where you are with creatures."

"You might be on to something, at that," says Graves, after a pause, and his voice is kinder than Newt was expecting. When Newt darts a quick glance at his face, the man's mouth is curving at the corners and creases bracket his eyes. Newt isn’t at all sure how to read his expression. He's no Jacob, but perhaps Newt could like this Percival Graves after all. "I had an albino puffskein when I was a kid,” Graves is saying. His cheeks are flushing a little, which is probably the brandy. “Runt of the litter, and they said there was no point raising him. Said he wouldn’t live more than a month or two. But he lived to twelve years old.” Newt is impressed in spite of himself: twelve is a very respectable age for a puffskein. “Laziest creature you ever met, but I loved that little guy. He died while I was away at school.” After a moment he adds, “I’ve always wanted a dog, but it doesn’t seem fair, with the hours I work. But I bet that son of a No-Maj wouldn’t have gotten the drop on me if I had a dog.” 

“Or else he’d have hurt the dog,” Newt points out, because working with the dragon corps meant he doesn’t have any illusions about Gellert Grindlewald’s kindness to animals.

Graves’s face falls. “Or he’d have hurt the dog. Right.”

The pyjamas and the bare feet tell their own story; Newt is suddenly acutely grateful for his furry, scaly, prickly family as he imagines Percival Graves alone in his empty apartment, ambushed by a dark wizard as he padded wearily off to brush his teeth after another twelve-hour day, and nobody there to protect him, or to notice he was missing. 

“Do you want to meet them?” Newt says, abruptly. “My creatures?” Grindlewald had scoured the menagerie and stolen his obscurus, but this man with the same face and form has never seen them; perhaps he’d appreciate them.

“You know, I think I do,” says Graves, and when Newt glances up at him again, he’s smiling properly. “After all, there’s no rush to get back, is there? The paperwork has been doing itself, from the sounds of it, and I’ve not taken a day off work for five years. Mr Scamander, I would love to meet the denizens of your zoo.”


End file.
